The Incomplete and Discontinued
by poxmaker
Summary: Collection of tiny drabble-things that will most likely never be fulfilled in their desire to be full-length fics. Poor drabbles.. Most will likely contain Wilkercest of the Reese/Malcolm variety, in one form or another. Rated M for future safety.
1. Moods and Rages

**A/N**: So I'm totally not copying usedusername, I promise. (Srsly) However, I did have at least two incomplete little things I'd written on a whim that I figured shouldn't be allowed to just die, so I decided a nice collection was in order. The fact that usedusername did it first was... coincidental. (coughsrslycough) Lol Really, it was.

Anyway, all of these drabble things will most likely be extremely short, and I'm not promising I'll ever update this. All of the drabbles will most likely be Reese/Malcolm in some form or another, so if you don't like, go away. I don't put up with flames. Oh, AND, I am giving permission to anyone who might want to steal and expand on any of these, if they so wish. All I ask is to be given credit for the original idea.

Drabble Number One Rating: K (Overall fic rating is M because I can't see into the future)

* * *

**Moods and Rages**

Malcolm categorized Reese's moods in two ways: Inward and outward. Inward rages had to do with things that pertained to Reese himself—often times these involved emotions that Reese couldn't understand or had trouble dealing with. His current rage, though, was more of an outward one. These were caused by _other_ people—most often one of his family members.

Malcolm found it far easier to deal with the outward rages, because then he didn't have to deal with any of the emotional blocks Reese had running rampant in his mind. For this type of rage, all he had to do was sling an arm around Reese's shoulder and hold him tightly against himself. Reese would continue to huff and puff, but after merely a minute the physical contact would normally calm him down, and Malcolm would give him a final squeeze before going back to whatever he'd been doing previously.

Malcolm always felt very pleased with himself after these occurrences—as if he'd accomplished some great and awe-inspiring feat. He sometimes contemplated writing a book about his experiences with Reese, detailing possible psychological reasons for Reese's ease of calm when it came to him. He tentatively called it something like The Moods and Rages of the Wilkerson Male.

Of course, then he would realize that he was missing half of the equation—the inward moods he so dreaded dealing with—and always gave up the book as a lost cause.

* * *

**A/N: **Wrote this one late at night right before I went to bed. I had the random idea, so I jotted it down. If it had been a full-length fic, I probably would've added something to the beginning detailing that Reese was pissed about something or another. He was supposed to be, anyway.

I figure this would take place in that twilight period when they know they like each other (as more than brothers), but still have very little idea of what's going on. So they wouldn't mind the half-hugs so much. Maybe. It was a work in progress, so I dunno for sure.

Yes, I know my notes are longer than the actual drabble. I TALK A LOT. XD

Reviewing is never necessary, but is nice. :D


	2. FML

**A/N**: This is my first time using the chapter system. So very excited. :D

I think I must also mention that I _also_ decided to post these out of guilt, because usedusername has kept me entertained (and excited) with numerous excerpts from her upcoming sequel to 'Deconstructive Reconstruction,' and I felt I needed to at least return the favor somehow. This isn't nearly enough, but it'll have to do for now because my brain has been hating on me.

Drabble Number Two Rating: K

* * *

**FML**

There was a creeping in Malcolm's chest; a niggling at the back of his mind. A tingling at the tips of his fingers, and an itch at the base of his spine. With all of that, fluttering in his stomach seemed like only a secondary effect, but he refused to fully acknowledge it. However, he knew what it was. He wasn't an idiot.

Well, the IQ test said he wasn't an idiot, but he sure felt like one. How he hadn't seen this before was beyond him. It was like seeing the clouds and smelling the rain, but refusing to carry an umbrella. He'd seen the signs over and over again, but he'd never given them any thought. And now that he knew what to look for he was second guessing himself at every turn, and all the while refusing to believe it had any sort of meaning.

For example, he would be sitting on the couch watching TV; minding his own business, nearly inconspicuous. Then Reese would walk into the room and sit next to him, and suddenly there would be this tightness in his chest that simply wouldn't _go away_. It wasn't so much painful as uncomfortable, but its non-ceasing presence still caused him to be short of breath, nearly wheezing. And he had to wonder, was it anxiety he was feeling, or guilt?

Because he could deal with anxiety—it was the sort of thing he could lower his head into and plow on through. But guilt... Guilt was different; he didn't know how to deal with it. Nothing short of apologizing profusely had ever worked for him, and as far as he could tell there was no way to apply that to this situation.

He wasn't even sure this situation _warranted_ an apology. What was he supposed to do, prison-walk up to Reese and apologize for being... _attracted_ to him? Because that would be_ ridiculous_.

* * *

**A/N**: Like many things, this came to me while driving to class and listening to one of the many songs that I associate with this pairing. It occurred to me that I normally think of Reese longing for Malcolm, and not the other way around. So this was born during an exceptionally boring Biology class. XD

Perhaps I should also mention that any drabble added to this might not be the best written.. I didn't really put a lot of thought into editing them. XD

As always, reviewing isn't necessarily necessary.


	3. ILU

**A/N **: Stupid underlining isn't working today... Anyway, I had a very productive Nutrition class today. Wrote two little things. Well, this one is little, the next one not so much.

Drabble Number Three Rating: K

* * *

**ILU**

"So you loved her?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry..."

"I know. It's okay... I guess."

"Do you... Do you still love her?"

"Nah. At least, I don't think so?"

"You're sure?"

"I... I don't know anymore. I thought she loved me, too. Now no one does..."

"I..."

"What?"

"Oh... It's nothing."

"Oh, okay."

"...no wait. It's not nothing. _I_ love you, Reese."

"Yeah, I love you too, Malcolm."

* * *

**A/N**: Yeah, didn't take me very long to write that. XD If you can't tell (cos it is kinda ambiguous), this is set right after Reese comes back from the military. They're talking about the girl that Malcolm stole.

Reviewing is nice, but not necessarily necessary.


	4. Gay For My Brother

**A/N**: Here's drabble number two that I wrote today. I'm actually very proud of this one. I love it to death. :D

Drabble Number Four Rating: T (For Reese being Reese)

* * *

**Gay For My Brother**

"So you're gay for me, huh?"

Malcolm froze in the doorway to his room. He stared, mouth agape, at his brother. Reese sat on his bed reading a magazine, not even looking at him.

"W-What?"

Reese looked up at him.

"You're gay for me." When Malcolm didn't respond, he rolled his eyes. "You want me? You'd like to stick me one? Up the ol' bung hole?"

Malcolm stared at him in complete and utter horror. He quickly spun around and slammed the door shut behind him.

"What the HELL are you talking about??"

Reese sighed and closed his magazine.

"Y'know, for a smart guy you're pretty stupid. And _I'm_ not as stupid as I look."

Malcolm scowled at him and sat down on his bed, facing away.

"You don't know anything, Reese."

Reese hopped off his bed and jumped up onto Malcolm's, landing on his feet and bending down to sit on his knees.

"Come on," he said, "admit it!"

"There's nothing to admit!"

Reese's face fell and he turned around to sit back against the headboard. He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned.

"It's not like I'd beat you up or anything," he said, staring at the wall. "I just wanna know."

Malcolm's shoulders fell, and he turned to sit against the backboard as well.

"But you said you'd already figured it out—if you know, why do I need to say it?"

Reese shrugged.

"I dunno. I just wanna hear it."

Malcolm stared at the same spot on the wall that Reese was, and thought for a moment. Then he sighed and slumped over a little.

"You promise you won't hit me?"

"Yeah."

"Okay then."

He took in a deep breath and closed his eyes.

"I'm gay for you, Reese. I have been for a while now."

Reese turned to him, a giant grin on his face.

"Cool."

Slowly, oh so very slowly, Malcolm turned to face him. He opened his eyes and cocked a brow at him.

"You think it's cool?"

Reese's grin disappeared immediately and he turned back to the wall. He shrugged.

"Yeah. Just 'cause, you know, I figured it out."

"Oh."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Malcolm turning to stare at the wall as well. He started to feel a little awkward sitting there next to his brother, not but a foot away, having just spilled his darkest secret, and still hoping—just slightly—that something could come from it. Some strange feeling was just beginning to creep up the skin of his arms when Reese spoke into the silence.

"So what're you going to do?"

Malcolm shivered a little.

"What do you mean?"

Reese shrugged, yet again.

"Well, it's just that it's gotta hurt, y'know?"

"Yeah, kinda."

"So then what're ya gonna do?"

"I dunno."

Reese didn't say anything immediately after, so it seemed like they might fall back into silence again. Not wanting to feel the same awkwardness as before, Malcolm started to get up to leave.

"We could fool around or something... if you want," Reese said, right as Malcolm was standing up.

"What?"

"I mean, it'd be a waste, wouldn't it? To just ignore it?"

Malcolm turned around and stared at him, dumbfounded again.

"You're fine with this?"

Reese looked up at him.

"Yeah?" he said.

Malcolm glanced at the doors to make sure they were shut, then fell to his knees onto the bed.

"So then...?"

Reese grinned again, and reached out to pull him forward.

* * *

**A/N**: Possible sequel to Drabble Two? (FML) Maybe. Maybe not. Up to you. This takes place, probably, somewhere in season three, but NOT before. I've promised myself that I won't write this pairing for any time before season three. Seasons one and two simply don't have enough character development for it. And I think they're too young. But that's just me. XD

Hope you liked it. Reviewing is optional. ^^


	5. Suicide Watch

**A/N**: So this is what I do when I really should be writing a speech that's due in roughly fourteen hours. -sigh- I knew it would happen.

Okay, so I kinda half stole an idea from usedusername and half used an idea of my own, which I rambled on about to her. I'm pretty sure she won't mind... Hopefully. XD

Drabble Number Five Rating: T (For mentions of suicide and some light cursing by Reese)

* * *

**Suicide Watch**

To this day Malcolm still swears he was only making a sandwich, and had completely forgotten his ban of sharp and pointy objects. Of course, he would also point out that, regardless of said banning, a butter knife hardly counted. Especially when it was quite obviously covered in mayonnaise.

Seriously, he'd really been minding his own business, spreading a generous amount of the white goop on a slice of Wonder Bread, when, out out nowhere, Dewey had let loose his patented screech and yelled for Reese. Their older brother had come sprinting down the hallway, and upon skidding to a halt and seeing the utensil in Malcolm's hand had yelled, "Nooo!" and tackled him to the ground.

He literally tackled him. Over a butter knife.

In hindsight, Malcolm supposed it really was his fault. But at the time he was too annoyed to put much thought into the circumstances which had landed himself on the kitchen floor, with Reese lying on top of him and panting heavily; he also gripped both of Malcolm's wrists and held them over his head.

Malcolm scowled at his brother.

"I wasn't trying to kill myself, you idiot."

Reese glared right back at him and didn't move.

"Give me the knife," he demanded.

Malcolm rolled his eyes.

"How am I supposed to do that if I can't move my hands?" he said. Reese looked like he was about to retort, but Malcolm didn't let him. "And besides, how the hell was I supposed to kill myself with something that isn't even sharp?? I mean look at it! It's—"

"Shut up!" Reese yelled. "Give me the dammed knife!"

Malcolm's eyes briefly widened in surprise at the—nearly—uncharacteristic outburst, but did as he was told, fist clenching from around the knife's wooden handle. It rattled to the tiled floor.

For a moment neither of them moved, Reese glaring down at him and Malcolm wishing he could melt into the floor to get away from it. He wasn't entirely sure how Reese had managed to make him switch from indignant to ashamed so quickly, but he desperately wanted to get away from it. He was also acutely aware of the position they were in, and briefly wondered if Reese realized it too.

Reese continued to glare daggers at him though—his scowl so low that it seemed like he was purposefully trying to make it sink lower. He stared Malcolm directly in the eye, and for a second Malcolm wasn't sure what it was he was seeing there. Disappointment and worry, sure, but, was that... sadness?

If his head wasn't already pushed down against the tile, Malcolm might have jerked backwards in surprise. Instead he settled on a long, suffering (and dramatic) sigh, and rolled his eyes to the side to avoid Reese's death glare.

He pursed his lips, deciding how he would placate his older brother.

"Look," he said, still not looking Reese in the eye. "I'm sorry. Okay? I didn't think a butter knife would be a big deal."

Reese seemed to consider this for a moment, then let out a long and loud breath through his nose that he must have been holding, and finally, _thankfully_, looked away. However, he still didn't loosen his hold on Malcolm's wrists, or make any sort of indication that he planned on removing himself from on top of him.

"A knife is a knife," he said, now staring at some spot above Malcolm's head. "And I know a thing or two about knives."

"Yeah, but—" Malcolm began, but stopped himself. As much as he wanted to argue the point, he knew it was useless. "Yeah, you're right," he corrected. "I won't do it again."

Reese glanced up and to his left, probably at the knife.

"From now on, you want a sandwich, you ask," he said, and his gaze shifted back to Malcolm.

Malcolm quirked an eyebrow.

"Seriously?" he said, only slightly unbelieving.

The only answer he got was Reese's continued, constant stare.

"Okay then," Malcolm backpedaled, fearing more glaring. "I'll remember that."

"Good," was Reese's reply.

Again they lay there in silence, Reese still pressed firmly into him and staring him down, and Malcolm wondering if he was ever going to get up off the floor. Because he really, _really_ wanted to get up; and he wondered, vaguely, if that was because the floor was dirty, or because he was starting to get extremely uncomfortable with Reese lying on top of him. Because in his mind it couldn't be both; it had to be either. And he didn't like where that thought process was taking him, because it included realizing he could just take a shower later (with one of his brothers standing guard on the other side of the curtain, of course), and that, for some inexplicable reason, his heart rate had decided to shoot up and his breathing was becoming erratic.

And then, of course, he had to go and realize how intense Reese's stare was. It wasn't so much a glare anymore, just a hard, hard stare. It almost seemed like it was penetrating him—looking directly into his soul. And... was Reese moving? Moving... downward? No, no way. It was just his imagination. It had to be. Reese's face was definitely not getting closer to his. It was just a trick of the light...

"So are you two going to make out or what?" Dewey said, having been completely forgotten, and just like that the moment was shattered. Reese let go of Malcolm's wrists and hefted himself up, snatching the knife up from the floor and tossing it in the sink.

Malcolm breathed a heavy sigh of relief and turned to look at whatever he could see of Dewey through chair and table legs.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he said.

"I would find it mildly entertaining, yes," Dewey replied. "Although I'm not entirely sure what Dad did with the camera..."

Malcolm rolled his eyes and sat up, rubbing at his wrists. Reese had left deep red marks all the way around them. Malcolm was slightly afraid they'd bruise, and give his mother another reason to fret and worry over him, which would of course cause her to yell some more. He'd really had enough of the worried yelling.

He looked up at Reese, who was watching Dewey, who was watching him. It was a funky sort of staring triangle, and had the situation been different Malcolm might have laughed at its stupidity. As it were, he sobered slightly, remembering why he was on the floor in the first place. He suddenly felt very much like an idiot.

Reese noticed him watching him, and offered a hand to him. Malcolm took it reluctantly, and before he knew it Reese had hoisted him up to a standing position. He quickly stepped away and eyed his unfinished sandwich. Suddenly he wasn't so hungry.

"Anyone want a ham sandwich?" he asked, trying not to sound pathetic.

Reese turned his nose to the suggestion, but Dewey shrugged and walked over.

"Would be a shame to let a good sandwich go to waste," he said.

Malcolm started to walk past him, intending on sulking under the covers of his bed and wondering why life hated him for the rest of the day, when Reese stepped in front of him. His expression was dead serious again.

"I'll be in there in a second," he said. "If I find you bleeding you're dead meat."

Malcolm didn't really have it in him to argue anymore, but he did manage to say, "I'm not going to kill myself, Reese."

Reese looked at him hard, that glare from before returning. Malcolm felt like melting under it, just to get away.

"You've said that before," Reese said, emotionless, "look what happened."

"I mean it this time," Malcolm replied, staring somewhere at the vicinity of Reese's chest.

Reese gave him one last look before moving to the side.

"I'll be in there in a second," he repeated.

Malcolm didn't say anything, instead walking past. He went to his room, climbed into bed, and stared at the ceiling. Less than a minute later Reese walked in as well. He sat on his own bed and watched Malcolm watch the ceiling.

And that's where they stayed for the rest of the day.

* * *

**A/N**: This is totally to be blamed on the newest daily excerpt... thing that usedusername has on her profile. I am slightly afraid that I put an idea into her head that I shouldn't have. XD

Anyway, this originally started out as a _funny_ idea in my head, but turned darker as I wrote. Which is why the first few paragraphs may make you laugh (they did me), but then veer off sharply. It probably doesn't flow well. Oh well, they're drabbles--they're not _supposed_ to flow. XD This may beg a sequel, but don't get your heart set on one. I'm fickle about these things.

If this _had_ turned out to be funny, I probably would have named it "No Mayonnaise for You!" XD

I would also like to reiterate that these drabbles are FREE to be stolen and expanded upon by anyone that wishes. If it inspires you, _take it_. Just give me credit, and a link. XD

Remember, reviewing isn't necessary. I only ask that you read and enjoy. :D


	6. Desperate

**A/N**: So continuing with the 'Depressed Malcolm' theme, because I just watched a sad movie, and _then_ read the latest excerpt on usedusername's profile. Yeah, got me to thinking. And I hope I'm encouraging, and not distracting her, because I'm really loving how this extended version of 'Truth' is coming along. There's something about Malcolm's heart hurting that gets me to writing..

Drabble Number... shoot, is it Six already? Dang. Six's Rating: T (For, yet again, Reese swearing. Once.)

* * *

**Desperate**

There are few things that Reese likes better than smashing a pumpkin. Or throwing eggs. Or leaving a perfectly straight scratch down the length of a newly painted car. No, there are not many finer things in life than that for Reese. There are, however, two things he cherishes above all else, and one is getting a rise out of Malcolm. The other, which sometimes has to do with the first, but not often, is when he can lay his head on Malcolm's chest and listen to him breathe.

But if you tell anyone that, you'll wake up six feet under in a wooden box. So keep it to yourself. Feel privileged.

The problem at the moment, however, is that Malcolm is _depressed_. Why this is, Reese still has yet to fathom. He does know, though, that the situation is getting worse. For while he can, and certainly does, lie flat on his stomach in the bed next to his brother with his ear firmly planted to Malcolm's chest, Malcolm doesn't even seem to feel it. He does nothing but lie there as well, flat on his back, and stare up at their ceiling. He makes no other sound, nor any other indication that he is alive. He simply breathes in, and he breathes out. Over and over again.

And while normally this would be comforting to Reese, now it isn't. If he could form his thought process into words, Reese might say that Malcolm's breathing seems... hollow. As if Malcolm himself were hollow—a body performing its natural functions while the soul is away.

Malcolm rarely speaks, and when he does it comes out just as hollow—broken and smashed. Reese briefly wonders, as Malcolm's chest methodically rises and falls, if he ever had something to do with that. Were his constant jibes and torments a means to this end?

What makes it worse, though, is that there is absolutely nothing he can do. Because, God knows, he's tried. So many, many times. At first he went with the obvious stuff—wedgies and wet willies and Indian rug burns. And when that didn't work he went for shock value, going as far as to plant one right on Malcolm's cheek one day in the middle of lunch. That had ended with nothing more than a mere blink in his direction, and then Malcolm had gone back to his sandwich.

One day Reese had even broken down, gotten right up in Malcolm's face, and told him to "Snap the fuck out of it already!" Malcolm had gone to his room and climbed into bed, and later when Reese had sheepishly poked his head in to check up on him, he'd found dried streaks down Malcolm's cheeks. So he hadn't tried that again.

So as he lays there, and Malcolm breathes in and breathes out, Reese wracks his brain. Because he knows he isn't smart; knows he could never dig into Malcolm's head and beat the shit out of whatever it is that's wrong with him, but there has to be _something_ he can do. Because now he's turned to the sissy stuff—the stuff he never would have considered before now. He's tried holding him and lying with him. He's kissed him and told him he loves him over and over. He's bought him things. He even did his homework, thinking that maybe Malcolm would be proud of him. But still there's nothing.

And this worries him. It makes something deep inside of him twist and clench in fear every time Malcolm's breathing slows. It makes him wonder, possibly for the first time in his life, what could happen in the future. What if Malcolm stays like this for the rest of his life? What if there happens to be just that one time, just that _one time_ when Reese can't watch him? What would happen then? And, if the worst did happen, how would he handle it? What would he do without Malcolm?

Without Malcolm they would all fall apart, he knew. Malcolm was that vital middle section they needed, and if severed all would fail. Without him a link in their chain would be gone. And that's exactly what they were, a chain. Francis, Reese, Malcolm, Dewey, Jamie. They had always been a chain—certainly they got to add to the chain from time to time, but a chain they had always been just the same. They depended on one another, and Malcolm was in the exact center of it all. He was the one that got them through tough times, the one that thought up the brilliant escape plans and the brilliant retaliation plans. He was the one you went to when you needed a big word defined or a difficult subject explained.

He was the one Reese went to for... for...

He can't take it anymore. He just can't. At first it had been easy, because Malcolm was still relatively normal then. But slowly the jibes lost their impact, and Reese hadn't been able to get the same reactions he needed. Slowly Malcolm had become _not_ Malcolm. It was like he was disappearing entirely. He was seeping through like sand through one's fingers; wisps of smoke slipping through the cracks.

And as Reese lays there, and Malcolm breathes while Reese listens, he knows there is nothing he can do. He knows he is helpless as he watches Malcolm fade away. He knows that all he can really do is wrap his arms tightly around his brother, and listen to him breathe.

* * *

**A/N**: For whatever reason, this was started in present tense, and hopefully continued that way to the end. I'm so used to past tense that I find it extremely hard to stay within the present. So if there're any random tense changes in there, sorry.

As for Reese's, seemingly insightful and intelligent, thought process in this, I was trying to convey what he was thinking, but unable to form into words. I think that was mentioned in there, briefly. He would never be able to put any of that in the way that I did, but if he _could,_ I'd say it'd sound something like that.

Reviewing is not necessary, but I do hope you enjoyed it. Virtual hugs can and will be given if I've made you depressed with this, though. :)


	7. Empty

**A/N**: I _would_ like to dedicate this to 6Amaya6, who went and reviewed every single drabble in this _and _two of my other fics, but I feel like I should dedicate something more happy to her. Still, THANK YOU. Totally made my night last night.

Before you read this, go to YouTube and search for 'Together We Will Live Forever' by Clint Mansell, from the movie 'The Fountain.' Either listen to it before, during, or after you read this. Or, heck, all three. That song is what inspired this and drove me on to write it. It should help set the mood. Also, keep a box of tissues handy.

Drabble Number Seven rating: K+ (For depressive themes)

* * *

**Empty**

Reese must have fallen asleep, Malcolm thought. The hand that lie on his middle no longer rubbed gentle circles into his stomach, and the other around his shoulder hung limp, whereas before it had squeezed softly. The side of Reese's face, which before had never laid still, always moving subtly back and forth against his chest as if to gain some sort of comfort when there was none to be had, was calm and unmoving. His brother's breath was even and unfettered now, whereas before it had come out quickly, raggedly at times, and at others deep and slow. So yes, Reese must have fallen asleep.

Although it really didn't matter. Whether Reese was awake or asleep, he would always be there. In fact, he had been like this for a while now. It had started... well, Malcolm couldn't remember when it had started; time had no consequence anymore. However, it must have started a while ago, because Malcolm had noticed the slight changes Reese had gone through. First he had started out lying next to him on the bed, then he had started slowly scooting closer until they were right up against each other, and from there he had taken the final leap and laid directly on him.

Malcolm hadn't questioned it, he had simply let it happen. It had actually sort of been nice (if Malcolm could actually classify anything as such now) to have something else to occupy his mind. Although it wasn't that he was bored, it was more that his universe had previously only consisted of the bed and the ceiling. Now it contained Reese. Although that part came and went intermittently, he was still a permanent fixture now.

At first Malcolm had thought that maybe something would change—maybe he would feel something again with Reese lying there on top of him. Even if what he felt wasn't positive, even if it was hatred or disgust, it would still be something. Yet nothing had changed within him. Something had been added on the outside, but on the inside there was still nothing.

It was that emptiness that was causing this, he knew. At first there had been a heavy, guilty feeling bearing down in his chest, and that eventually gave way to such a mental anguish that his little summer stint when he was thirteen was as an ant to a Giant Sequoya. And then one day there had simply been nothing. He had been staring up at the ceiling, as he had been, and suddenly everything went away. _Everything_. Every hope and dream, emotion and sense of self left him in the blink of an eye. And it was as if none of it had ever been there in the first place. He didn't miss any of it, and had no want to bring it back.

After that all there had been was the ceiling, and the bed. He supposed the bed was comfortable enough, but he barely felt it under him. He also supposed that lying flat on his back for so long, and only getting up to fulfill the requirements of his body, must have left him sore and aching, but he didn't feel that either. All that left was the ceiling, and he wasn't even sure if he noticed it anymore. He stared up at it, certainly, but it was as if he didn't see it. Perhaps as he looked up his mind traversed the vastness of space and time, compiling theories and ideas and making breakthroughs and producing failures, solving world issues and bettering mankind, only to tear it all down again in one fell swoop. Or perhaps he simply stared up at cardboard panels that couldn't give him any sort of comfort, and were simply there. He didn't know; it had all streamed into one at some point, and in the end it all meant nothing.

Now though, there was Reese. If the circumstances had been different he might have wondered about this, but as it were he simply couldn't bring himself to care. Reese was there now, a constant pressure against his chest, a gentle squeeze on his shoulder, and slow, meditative circles around his stomach. And although it altogether meant nothing, Malcolm thought that he would be appreciative if he were able.

Reese must have not fallen asleep before, Malcolm thought to himself, because for him to notice something like that would normally have taken a miracle. Had Reese always been awake? Well he must have, unless he had been moving in his sleep the whole time. Regardless of that though, for something so mundane to make him aware, maybe...

There was no point, really, and in the end he would only have done it because he could, and nothing more, but at that moment he decided there really wasn't any counter reason _not_ to, so he lifted his arm. He figured it probably ached from disuse, but once again he didn't feel it. He stared at it for a moment, wondering if he really was feeling something coming from his limb, or if he had become numb to it. Maybe he could feel something, but simply didn't want to. He didn't know, and he didn't care.

He looked at it in the dim light of the room. When had his wrist become so thin? How much had he been eating lately? He couldn't remember; all there was was the bed, the ceiling, and Reese. It didn't matter, but it might have been surprising at a different time to see a noticeable difference in the thickness of his wrist, and his arm, and even his palm. The rest of him probably looked similar. Gaunt probably. Which actually suited his state anyway.

But it was so thin, his arm. Was there muscle under there at all? Could he move his fingers? He tested that out, and found he could. He might've been relieved, if he wasn't.

Slowly, because for whatever reason it wouldn't move any faster, Malcolm brought his hand to rest right off the edge of Reese's ear. It stayed there, right at the cusp of where skin gave way to tiny amounts of fuzz. He could bring himself to touch his brother, he knew, because it didn't matter. It might have mattered at a different time, but that time was gone and now it didn't. He could run his fingers up and down the shell of Reese's ear, and probably wake him, and it would never matter. He didn't even need a reason to do it—he simply could.

But he didn't. He let his fingers drift lazily at the tiniest of boundaries between their skin, and continued to do nothing about it. There was no point in letting his hand stay there, but at the same time there was no point in crossing that insurmountable distance needed to bring the tips of his fingers down a fraction of an inch. So he didn't.

That was when, of course, naturally, Reese shuddered in his sleep and took the step for him. His fingers crashed into the side of his brother's head in a way, he thought, would surely wake him. But it didn't. Instead Reese seemed to unconsciously move into the touch, and as he did so Malcolm's fingers grazed across his skin.

Whatever it did for Reese, though, was nothing compared to what it did for Malcolm. Which was precisely that, nothing. He wasn't sure what he'd thought he'd accomplish in the first place, but he supposed it really didn't matter. He wasn't even sure he could feel Reese's skin against his own, or the fine hairs that graced the tip of his ear.

No, wait. He must have felt something, because he still had nerve cells, right? It wasn't as if he'd lost his physical sense of touch, so he _had_ to feel something. So then why didn't he?

Lifting his hand to where the tips of his fingers just barely touched the edge of Reese's ear, Malcolm ran them across it. Forwards, then backwards. Then he moved down its front to Reese's temple, and he left gentle swirls there before moving on to his cheek. He thought idly that his cheek could either be warm or cold, but because he couldn't feel it (nor the temperature of the room), he didn't know. Reese probably wouldn't have cared anyway.

As he softly dragged his knuckles across the gentle curve of Reese's cheek, Malcolm wondered why it didn't provoke any reaction of him. He was doing it because he could, and not because he had any real desire to do so. But didn't 'because I can' beg an emotional attachment? Shouldn't this have made him feel _something_? But there was still nothing. It could have been mildly comforting, and _should_ have been mildly disturbing, but was neither. It just was.

If Malcolm could have been, he would have been extremely frustrated with himself.

This was when he felt—_felt—_a hand tenderly enclose his own, and his gaze shifted over to look Reese directly in the eye. He hadn't felt Reese wake up, nor had he seen him shift to look up at him, but he _had_ felt him touch him. But even though that should have been a breakthrough, he didn't care. It was different, but it was still nothing.

Reese gazed into his eyes, and Malcolm stared right back. He noticed how unsure his brother looked, but couldn't think of a reason why he would be. This was Reese, he didn't worry about a thing, so why start now?

Hesitantly, Reese took a breath and opened his mouth to speak.

"Are you back?" he asked.

Malcolm thought about that for a second. Had anything changed? He had felt Reese take his hand, but had that provided any sense of comfort or compassion? No. It was meaningless. He still felt empty, and his world was still only comprised of the bed, the ceiling, and Reese. Nothing mattered, and there had been no change. So he was forced to answer truthfully.

"No."

Reese's gaze dropped, and he pressed his ear to Malcolm's chest. Malcolm felt a steady pressure on his shoulder as Reese's hand re-enveloped it, and he felt those gentle circles continue on his stomach.

And life went on.

* * *

**A/N**: Unlike usedusername (who is much more dedicated than I), I didn't do any sort of research. So this is probably full of baloney. I just went with what the music told me, and this is what I came up with. I know there are a few contradictions in there, but I chalk that up to Malcolm's depression, which is probably rife with contradiction.

I think from now on I'll stop with the depressive themes, because it really is a pain to write. Not that it isn't worth it--it just stresses me out too much to get into the mood to write it. So the next drabble thingy should be a little more happy, or at least not depressingly sad. I have a few ideas in mind.

Reviewing isn't necessary, and virtual hugs are available for those I've depressed with this. Now I'm off to Biology. Hope you enjoyed! :D


	8. Confide

**A/N**: Three short things, because the notes at the end are long: 1) I have no shame. I will readily admit this now. 2) My first time writing, and posting, Dewey and Lois. Not sure if they're in character. 3) This IS dedicated to 6Amaya6, because it is happier. :D

Drabble Number Eight rating: K

* * *

**Confide**

Jamie still refused to talk. He was almost four years old and he never said a word. Well, in public at least. Lois knew he could, and would talk, because she would always hear him babbling on to himself when he was in the bathroom and thought no one was around. It frustrated her to no end that he could, but simply wouldn't say a word to her. She'd long ago given up using any advice the therapist had given her, and had resorted back to her own methods.

If Dewey hadn't already had something weighing on his mind, he might have stopped to ponder why his mom and little brother were having a staring contest. As it was, he simply walked into the living room and sat down next to his mom on the couch. Lois barely seemed to notice.

"Mom, we need to talk," he announced, not surprised at all when she didn't turn to give him her attention.

Lois' eyes didn't leave Jamie's, who was standing in front of her and staring back in earnest. Neither of them planned on losing.

"What about, honey?" she said a little too politely, not even blinking.

Dewey frowned.

"This is important. Look at me," he demanded.

She didn't, of course.

"Dewey," she said, tone back to normal, "I'm busy. Tell me what you need to tell me so I can concentrate on your brother."

Jamie shifted position and Lois grinned, think he was cracking. Dewey's frown deepened and his fists clenched.

"Do you even care? One of your sons tells you he has something important—life alteringly important—to tell you and you won't even turn to give him your undivided attention??"

For her part, Lois had to resist the urge to roll her eyes and break eye contact with Jamie. Instead she narrowed them and glared her youngest down. He stared back, unblinking.

"Dewey, I was busy before you walked in here. This is important too. Now tell me whatever it is you need to before I start tuning you out completely."

Dewey had long ago learned to control his temper, so when it started to flare he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. When he opened them again he was more confident, and far more determined.

"Mom, I think I'm bisexual."

Lois seemed to not hear him. She leaned forward so that she could glare at Jamie more intensely.

"That's nice, Dewey," she said.

Dewey's temper broke free from the bonds he'd been holding it by, and he jumped up off the couch in anger.

"Did you even just hear me??"

"Of course I did," Lois said absently. "You said you think..."

She blinked. Then she seemed to think for a second before slowly turning to face him. Her mouth hung open just a bit as she stared up at him.

Jamie walked out of the room, forgotten.

"You think you're... what?" Lois asked, eyes widening just enough for it to be perceptible.

Dewey's mouth thinned, preparing for the worst. He half expected her to kick him out, and already had a lie prepared to tell Francis when he asked him if he could live with him. On the other hand, though, he half expected her to do absolutely nothing at all.

"Bisexual," he answered.

For only a few seconds Lois continued to stare at him as she processed what he'd said. Then she did exactly what Dewey _hadn't _been expecting: she straightened up and patted the seat next to her.

"Sit down Dewey."

Not having planned for this, Dewey was tempted to run away. She didn't seem mad, but he knew she could easily mask it. He sat next to her, but made sure he knew where the quickest exit was.

For a moment she did nothing but look at him; but then her lip quivered and her eyes watered, and she enveloped him in a hug. Curious then more than nervous, Dewey let her. To her credit, she didn't sob or really cry at all. She simply held him tight and laid her cheek against the top of his head.

"I can't believe you came to me for this," she said, not letting up on him at all. "Thank you for telling me."

Despite her bone-crushing grip on him, Dewey managed to shrug.

"Who _else_ would I have told?" he said. "Francis, Malcolm, and Reese would have made fun of me. Grandma is evil. And Dad would be so embarrassed he'd probably wet himself. My options were kind of limited."

Lois finally let him go, and he scooted away from her. Just a bit.

"Well," she said, wiping at an eye, "true as that is, I'm still glad you told me."

They sat there for a moment, Dewey fidgeting and looking everywhere but at his mom, and Lois contemplating how to broach what she wanted to ask next.

"So..." she started, "does this mean... Does this mean you have a boyfriend? Or... someone you like?"

Dewey immediately felt his ears heat up.

"No!" he yelled a little too quickly. "I mean... I just know, y'know?"

Lois shrugged.

"No, I don't know. I have no idea what it's like to be attracted to the same sex. Not that there's anything wrong with it," she quickly amended.

"Oh," Dewey said, not quite sure how to explain it. He thought about it for a moment. "I guess... There're girls at school I think are cute, and... and there's a guy I think is... _nice_, too."

He figured his ears were probably bright crimson by then, and in contrast to his hair they probably stood out like a sore thumb.

Lois beamed down at him, oblivious to his embarrassment.

"So there _is_ someone!" she exclaimed.

"_Mom!"_ Dewey whisper-shouted. "Not so loud!"

"Oh!" Lois lowered her voice. "Right."

Dewey quickly looked around to see if Jamie was still in the room, even though he knew that if he was he would never see him. After a few seconds he figured he'd have to take his chances.

He twiddled his thumbs subconsciously.

"Yeah," he admitted. "But... actually there's more than one."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah. And, um... They're kinda dating."

One of Lois' eyebrows rose, but she didn't reprimand him.

"Well..." she started. "I... Well, I know what it's like to like more than one person at once, but never a couple. Is it a guy and a girl, or...?"

"Guy and girl," Dewey said, not meeting her eye.

"Well I don't really know how to help you there, Dewey," she said, looking kind of lost. "Would you like me to—"

"_No!"_

"Okay, okay," Lois backpedaled, patting him on the shoulder. "I won't get involved. But I wish there was a way I could help you."

Dewey finally looked her in the eye, and saw complete sincerity. She wasn't trying to trap him for once. He actually started to feel relieved, and smiled at her.

"Just talking about it helped," he said. "Thanks Mom."

Lois looked surprised for a second—her children _never_ thanked her. But she quickly got over it and smiled back at him. Then another thought occurred to her and the smiled dropped.

"I suppose you'll want me to keep this from your father?"

"Yes," Dewey answered almost immediately.

"You know he'll find out sooner or later, right?"

"Yeah," he said, smiling to himself. "But I figure the longer it takes the better off it'll be for him."

"Just don't let him catch you having a three-way make out session. There are only so many times his heart can take that..."

"What?"

Lois seemed to come out of her thoughts and shook her head.

"Oh, nothing," she said. "Don't worry about it."

Dewey cocked a brow, but let it drop.

"So..." he started, having no idea where their conversation had gone.

"So," Lois repeated. "You're bi."

"Yes."

She looked off to the side and nodded her head.

"That's fine. However, the rules are going to change: Now you're not allowed to have _anyone_ in your room with the doors closed. Not even your brothers."

Dewey gaped at her in horror.

"Eww!" he yelled. "Mom!"

Lois was unremorseful.

"You decided to out yourself, so now you have to deal with the consequences. Don't expect special treatment."

Dewey sighed.

"Yeah, I guess you're right," he said, not meaning a word of it.

Lois leaned over and smiled in his face.

"I'm proud of you, Dewey."

Although the temptation to do so was strong, he didn't smile back at her. Instead he looked off to the side and forced a frown.

"Yeah, thanks Mom."

* * *

**A/N**: Ah, the confusing complexity of adolesence. Gotta love it.

Francis was the only one of the brothers I actually saw being completely straight. I always thought Malcolm would be too intelligent to limit himself, and Reese too dumb. Always kinda saw Dewey as one of those musical types that just didn't care and was either asexual or bisexual. So yes, I have partially gayified Dewey. I have no shame.

And because he's a Wilkerson, I couldn't just make it easy for him. XD In all seriousness though, what would that be like? To like two people at once, and to make it worse they're already together? Would be crazy, I'm sure.

Reviewing is not necessary. Never is. I simply hope you enjoyed it. :D


	9. Connections

**A/N**: Quick drabble is quick, and I think this one actually counts as a drabble (being well under a thousand words). Wrote this because I'm too sleepy to work on the other thing I'm working on, because I wanted an excuse for fluff, and because I wanted to explore Malcolm's magically appearing burn mark. All of which I feel are excellent reasons. XD

Drabble Number Nine Rating: T (For use of one curse word)

* * *

**Connections**

It always seemed that it was the little things that Reese noticed. Of course, that most likely was how it'd always been—Reese noticing the little things, and Malcolm noticing the big things. And it seemed so right, because Reese understood the little things—he got them, appreciated them.

So it was no surprise that while they were sitting around the lunch table one day, Malcolm rambling on about some nerdy thing or another to his equally nerdy Krelboyne friends, that Reese noticed Malcolm's hand was unoccupied, so he took it. And it was equally unsurprising that Malcolm didn't notice at all, and kept up his rant.

As he continued to ignore the Krelboynes' conversation, Reese massaged the top of Malcolm's hand with his thumb. He looked down at it and followed the motion his thumb was making. It was interesting to him that their hands were so similar—Malcolm's were a little smaller, certainly, but both his and Reese's were covered in a myriad of scars. Nicks and burns and entire chunks were healed over with scar tissue.

Without much thinking about it Reese turned Malcolm's hand over. His fingertips were immediately drawn to the giant burn mark on the far side of Malcolm's palm. It was rectangular and studded with three unburnt circles down its center. It seemed... familiar, and he ran a finger across it.

Glancing up at Malcolm, Reese tapped him on the shoulder. Unsurprisingly, this didn't gain his attention. So Reese physically picked up his brother's hand and shoved it in his face.

"Hey!" he said, loud enough for the entire table to hear. They all fell silent suddenly and gave him confused glares.

Malcolm turned to face him, pulling his own hand out of his face.

"What?"

Reese held up his hand again.

"Did I do this?" he asked, indicating the burn.

Malcolm blinked, trying to come out of 'uber-uber-thought' mode and return to 'normal-uber-thought' mode. He looked at his hand, then at Reese.

"Um, yeah?"

Reese nodded.

"Thought so."

Then he leaned forward and kissed Malcolm's palm, right over the burn mark.

The entire table had vaguely the same annoyed reaction: 'Dammit Reese, not at lunch!' It was only Dabney that glared as if he wanted to burn lasers through Reese's skull.

"Sorry about that," Reese said.

Malcolm could feel his face begin to heat up, but he forced his expression to stay neutral. He didn't, however, try to take his hand back. He knew better.

"Don't worry about it."

Reese nodded again, and then went back to ignoring the rest of the table. Malcolm switched back into 'uber-uber-thought' mode and continued his rant.

Reese turned Malcolm's hand back over and started tracing scars again, continuing to notice the little things and appreciate them for what they were: permanent connections between the two of them.

* * *

**A/N**: Does Reese seem out of character? Because on the one hand I can see a relationship between them maturing him, and making him more affectionate. But at the same time he's apologizing _and_ being affectionate_._ Even if he has matured, do you think he could do both at once without exploding? I think so, but then again I'm biased.

Episode referenced is 'Garage Sale' if anyone wants to know. I may need to take a page out of usedusername's book and start saying that more often. Would probably help. XD

Reviewing isn't necessary, but I eternally love those that do. :D


	10. Dream of Me

**A/N**: So it's three in the morning, but I have WRITTEN SOMETHING. FINALLY. After, what, a month? Gods, I hate it when I fizzle out; ain't fun. But here is something for y'all, and I dedicate it to CoblynauRisen, who, like 6Amaya6, left me something like NINE reviews to read when I got home one day. Seeing that always makes me so happy. :D Squiddosaur, you'll be next for a dedication when I can kick my butt into writing something.

It is late, and I am sleepy, so please forgive any spelling or grammatical mistakes I've missed in the editing process (which was really more of a quick glance...). I'll come back and edit it some more later.

**Edit**: Went in and added some more details towards the end. I like how it turned out. And hey, I wrote something! ...even if it was only two paragraphs to add to something I'd already written. XD (June 28, 2010)

Drabble Number Ten Rating: T (For swearing, like always)

* * *

**Dream of Me**

One night, Malcolm has the strangest dream of his life.

It's not strange because people start growing random and assorted things from uncomfortable positions; nor because he visits impossible and awe-inspiring places. It does not rank as _the_ strangest because he flies, or breathes under water, or survives frighteningly high falls. It isn't strange because the happenings in his dream are out of the ordinary or impossible; no, it is strange because everything that happens in it _is_ possible. It's all very comfortable and realistic, and later he wonders why the rest of his dreams can't be more like this one.

When the dream starts, he's sitting in the living room on the couch, watching a movie. His whole family is there, all sitting on the couch, which seems to have elongated enough for them all to fit. At the far end his parents sit next to each other, his mother sitting with her legs tucked under her as she leans against his father. Next to them Francis sits with Piama, sharing a giant bowl of popcorn—Francis stuffing his mouth with fistfuls of the kernels at a time. After them Dewey and Jamie sit side-by-side, Dewey covering Jamie's eyes; which probably has something to do with the movie, but Malcolm doesn't pay enough attention to formulate a better theory.

Malcolm's not really watching the movie, though. He's instead focused on the strong arms that have weaved themselves around his body and under one of his own arms, and the warm shoulder on which his head is placed. He's sitting on someone's lap and they're holding him, and he finds it quite pleasant. And of course he instinctively knows who it is—the way you know something in a dream without having to see it or be told it—and the fact doesn't bother him. Actually, it seems rather normal.

He finds himself kissing at the smooth skin of the neck in front of him. He gives gentle, smooching pecks to one of the veins he can see. It makes the other squirm, because evidently they're ticklish, and it makes Malcolm feel giddy to know that he can cause that. It's a wonderful feeling.

Suddenly he can hear rain coming from outside, pounding down like it's trying to force itself to the center of the Earth. Only, it's not really outside; it's inside. It's inside the school, and he's _at_ the school. And there's a river where the hallway floor should be. The rain is falling from the ceiling tiles.

Malcolm is standing by his locker on the edge of the river, absently pondering whether it'd be safer to put his text books back in the locker or to keep them with him. He sees that Dabney and Lloyd have constructed a makeshift raft out of an entire section of lockers, and decides the latter option would be better.

But then he doesn't care anymore, because the books are gone and he's lying on top of a firm, bare chest inside a wooden boat. The rain falls steadily from the ceiling and completely soaks him, but he doesn't care because he has his swimsuit on and would be soaked regardless of the rain anyway. Besides, the person beneath him is far more interesting. They're warm, and slick with rain, and laying his head down to listen to their heartbeat is so completely soothing.

The boat they're in rocks gently with the motion of the river, and they pass by the main office. The principal stares out at them disapprovingly, but he's barricaded himself in the office, so there's really nothing he can do about it. So he goes ignored.

There are gentle circles being woven into Malcolm's shoulder by deft and clever fingers that know exactly where to touch him to make him relax. However, his shoulder is slick from the rain, and the fingers keep slipping every once in a while, so the effect is only partial. But Malcolm enjoys it nonetheless.

A ringing begins to fill his ears. It's not like the high-pitched ringing that people often get in their ears; instead it's round sounding, and melodic. It seems to fill the air, coming in from all sides and penetrating everything around him. It's like... Well, it's like singing metal is what it's like. Like reverberating metal pouring its soul into the air around it. It's beautiful.

As he listens the rain disappears. He finds that he's now standing up; standing with a stone floor beneath his feet. He can see multi-colored streamers flying in the wind, and out beyond them a wondrous mountainscape. He somehow knows that behind him, a giant golden statue of the Buddha stands resolutely.

Someone is hugging him, and he just as easily knows who it is. They're standing on a balcony overlooking the downward slope of the mountain, holding on to each other in breathless happiness. Because why wouldn't they embrace? They _made it_; all the way. They never gave up, and here they are.

They are so happy and giddy that they hardly notice the monks and the few other visitors that mill around behind them. Of course, none of them are paying them the slightest bit of attention anyway, so it really doesn't matter.

Malcolm buries his face into the other's neck, gently snuggling into it, his nose rubbing softly up and down its length. He is so content right now, and this warm, spreading feeling fills his chest. Strong arms encompass him, and he can feel hot, excited breath tickling at the edges of his ear. He can't believe he's here, that they're _both_ here, and oh, God it's so amazing!

He wants to tell the other how amazing it is, and how amazing _they_ are, but finds that for all his happiness he has no voice. The only sound around them is that gentle metallic ringing. So instead Malcolm just squeezes tighter, and wishes it would never end.

And that is when Malcolm wakes up.

He stares silently at the ceiling of his bedroom, pupils wide in the darkness, and can feel that loving warmth still spreading through his chest. It's like tendrils of warmth moving out from the center of his chest; snaking around his heart and his lungs and filling them with such emotion that he feels he might burst. It resonates with his heartbeat and every breath he takes, and it spreads further and further throughout his body. It is the single most amazing feeling he has ever felt: like everything is right in the world, or like nothing can hurt him in its presence. It feels as if it has always been there, and will always be there, and he's so happy about that. So very, very happy.

But already the dream is fading, and along with it that warm feeling, and he grasps at wisps of it, desperate to remember. He tries his hardest, putting his photographic memory to work, but within moments it's gone. Within a mere blink of an eye, no more than a second after he wakes up, that joy has vanished. And now nothing remains but a cold, empty pit in the middle of his chest.

Feeling panic and sadness coming on, he quickly turns to his right and shout-whispers, "Reese!"

Reese's eyes open slightly, and he groggily lifts his head just enough to stare at Malcolm in the darkness.

"What?"

"I..." But then Malcolm realizes he doesn't really have anything to say, and he frowns apologetically, even though he knows Reese can't see it. "Nothing, sorry."

Reese's eyes snap closed, and he's out in less than two seconds.

Malcolm turns back onto his back and stares up at the ceiling again. He tries to remember what his dream had been about, but no specifics come to him. All he really remembers for certain is the feeling it gave him—a good, no, _great_ feeling. It was like all-encompassing joy.

And, for some reason he can't explain, he has the fiercest urge to get up and climb into bed with his brother. He isn't feeling particularly suicidal, so he tries to ignore that urge as much as possible, even though it _is_ very compelling.

He can already feel the cold beginning to seep into his chest. He knows it well: the feeling of loss and disappointment. Whatever he had dreamed, it must have been wonderful to provoke such a pitiful, tormenting cold spike within him.

He thinks, though, that the worst part is that he can't remember a single specific detail. He wants something to hold on to, something to remember. He needs something to cherish, something to bring back that warm feeling whenever he needs it. But nothing comes to him, and he's so disappointed that he can feel pinpricks at the corners of his eyes.

And then he chastises himself for getting weepy over a stupid dream, and tries his damnedest to ignore the chill in his heart. He turns onto his side—the side that wouldn't force him to face Reese—and closes his eyes, intent on going back to sleep.

It isn't until much later, when certain specific events happen, that he remembers pieces of his dream in any detail. But by then he doesn't need those dream fragments to bring up that warm and loving feeling in his chest. So when he feels a sense of deja vu as Reese's fingers rub slow, small circles into his slick shoulder, he just smiles and enjoys the moment.

* * *

**A/N**: I have actually had dreams like this, but I never remember who the other person is. It's kinda depressing. Still, cuddle dreams are my favorites, even though they rarely come about.

This was inspired by the excerpt-thingy on (who else? XD) usedusername's profile today/yesterday. (Which I thought was awesome-sauce, btw) It occurred to me that a lot of dream sequences involving these two are sexual in nature. And while that is perfectly normal and understandable for their situation, I just wanted to try something different. Of course, I think I totally fail at dream sequences, but meh. That's up to y'all.

Two of the three parts of this dream were inspired by this nifty 'White Noise' app on my mom's iPod. I've been listening to rainstorms and Tibetan Singing Bowls. It's all very relaxing and making me sleepy. zzzZZZ

Reviewing makes me smile, but then again so does simply knowing that people read my stuff. So reviewing isn't necessary. :D


	11. Content

**A/N**: Oh, lookit! I have written something! It's kinda short and crappy, but it's something! Hopefully it'll be enough to make up for all the time I've been gone.

And dang, look, it's been nearly a year since I first started this thing.

By the way, before you read this, as it's not explicitly mentioned, the bed in question is Malcolm and Dewey's. Dewey... Well, Dewey is not here right now; please leave a message after the beep.

BEEP!

* * *

**Content**

It's probably around two in the morning one night when something makes Malcolm wake up. It takes a moment for his eyes to focus and for the fog to clear, and when he's mostly lucid he's greeted with a sight he's feared for most of his life. Reese is staring at him, and smiling.

Reese is _smiling_ at him.

Years of self-taught self-preservation skills immediately kick in, and the first thing Malcolm thinks to do is say, "Oh _God_, what did you do?"

This doesn't seem to faze Reese, who is lying in bed next to him. He continues to smile and watch his brother, and after a moment says, "Nothing."

His reply is so calm and genuine-sounding that it scares Malcolm even more. Without much thinking about it, he's up and out of the bed and across the room. He watches Reese warily, who is still just lying there.

"Seriously, Reese," Malcolm says, eyes frantically searching the room for possible danger, "what did you do?"

This time Reese's smile falters, and he sits up in the bed to look at Malcolm more clearly.

"Nothing," he repeats.

Malcolm is still visually searching the room. Nothing suspicious has caught his eye, but the nagging feeling that he's missing something gnaws at him. There was _always_ something.

"Come _on_, Reese," he says, voice growing more frantic with each syllable. "Just tell me now and we can forget anything happened." When Reese still isn't forthcoming with information, something clicks in Malcolm's mind. "Oh God, it's _on_ me, isn't it? You glued my toes together, or shaved something into the back of my head, or..."

By now the smile is gone from Reese's face, and he is frowning in what is probably disappointment, which Malcolm would have noticed if he weren't so busy being paranoid and worried about himself.

"I didn't do _anything!_" Reese interrupts him. He throws his hands up in exasperation and gives Malcolm a look that clearly says 'What the hell, man?'

Malcolm stops his searching for just long enough for some clarity to sink in, and he shakes his head to clear it.

"You... didn't?"

Reese's mood has done a complete 180 by now and the look on his face could be described as disdainful. He glares Malcolm down as he says, again, "NO."

Malcolm looks uncertain for a moment, but then rationality begins to kick in, and he has the decency to look ashamed. He rubs one arm self-consciously.

"Oh... Sorry," he says, more than just a little pathetically.

Reese is far from being in an accepting mood, and flops back down facing the opposite direction, muttering angrily under his breath as he does so.

Malcolm, now feeling idiotic beyond belief, creeps back over to the bed and gets back under the sheets. He gets comfortable facing the ceiling, then glances at Reese out of the corner of his eye. He can hear him still muttering under his breath, and his rigid posture suggests that rage is building just under the surface, ready to burst out at any disturbance.

Malcolm doesn't really want to tempt fate, and really would prefer to go back to sleep, but the fact that he _is_ awake and still feeling very much ashamed keeps him awake and thinking. And the more he thinks, the more he realizes he really _is_ an idiot.

He realizes that he had just assumed that Reese's smile had held evil intent. It's true that it normally _does_, but he'd had no proof. Instead he'd just assumed and panicked, like he normally does.

Thinking about it, Reese's smile hadn't actually looked devious at all. Instead it had been... How to put it? Happy? Glowing? Pleased...

Content.

That was is it, Reese had been content. He hadn't been plotting something against his poor, unsuspecting brother; he'd just been lying there in contentment. His smile had just been reflecting that.

And that's when Malcolm understood.

"Reese," he says, ignoring the feeling that it was a bad idea, "were you... Were you watching me sleep?"

He turns his head to watch for any reaction, or any sign that he is about to be pummeled into the next century, but Reese gives neither. The only thing that could count is a slight twitch of his shoulder. But Malcolm knows better, and takes this as a sign of confirmation.

"Oh," he says. His insides squirm with a mixture of guilt and affection, and he feels that the situation is going to become awkward very soon. "I didn't know."

He hears Reese huff gruffly.

"That's kinda the point," Reese says into the darkness.

Malcolm turns onto his side, fully facing his brother. He scoots forward enough to just be able to feel the heat radiating from Reese's back.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, just loud enough to where he knows Reese can hear him.

Again all he gets is barely a twitch of Reese's shoulder. Feeling this isn't enough, he reaches out and wraps an arm over Reese's middle and pulls himself fully against him. When he isn't immediately elbowed in the stomach, he brings his face to rest against the arch of Reese's neck.

"I really am, Reese."

It's when he feels Reese's arm cover his, and Reese's fingers find the spaces between his own to intertwine with them, that he knows he is forgiven.

* * *

**A/N**: This was actually written, like, a month ago in the middle of the night when I really should have been sleeping because I had Zoology at ten the next morning. I haven't written anything since (both because I have Zoology four days a week, and because of uber writer's block), so this does not mean that I'm _back_. I would like to be, very, very much so. So... Yeah, we'll see.

Reviewing is not necessary, like always. :D


	12. STFU ALREADY

**A/N**: Hi y'all! Been a little while, hasn't it? This new ficlet is something I began last year (as it is with pretty much everything MitM related that I have on my computer), which I finished and polished up tonight. Felt like accomplishing something. And I do so love this little thing. Originally it was an excuse to write fluff, but turned into Reese just being Reese. Also, awesome title is awesome. x3

**Usual Disclaimer**: I do not own MitM or any of the characters therein. This should be obvious, as Malcolm and Reese do not make-out like crazy even once at any point during the show. ...unfortunately.

Enjoy!

* * *

**STFU ALREADY**

Reese snoozed somewhere between sleep and a pleasant fantasy as the face of the digital clock on the shelves behind him rearranged itself to say 1:23 AM. The only light in the room came from that clock, and somewhere in the back of his mind Reese could hear Dewey breathing softly in his sleep. It was dark, the double bed was warm and comfortable, and as his fantasizing began to form into some sort of strange, controllable dream, Reese began to slip further and further into sleep. It was almost perfect; there was only one thing missing.

Almost subconsciously, Reese reached up with one arm and began to turn over onto his stomach. Being used to there always being a warm body next to him but not finding one, he rolled too far, over the edge of the bed, and onto the floor.

He hit the ground with enough force to knock him out of his half-sleep, and with a grunt he looked up with blurry eyes at his surroundings. Wooden floor, bed legs, dust bunny; hello random unlit firecracker... The floor wasn't particularly comfortable, and it was kind of cold, so, slowly, he started to haul himself up.

He stood on his knees and stared at the spot on the bed where he'd been a moment before, trying to sort out what had just happened. But his brain felt so sluggish that he gave that up and instead focused on why the bed was _empty_. Because that would not do.

There was a human-sized space on the bed that should have been filled, but was instead empty. Normally at this time of night it would have been occupied, and had it been occupied Reese would have found his intended target and not fallen face-first onto the wooden paneling of the floor. Which made his sleep-ridden brain wonder where said occupant was—although it was really more along the lines of 'Where the hell...?'

Slowly, groggily, and only slightly off balance, Reese got to his feet. A wave of dizziness hit him as his blood pressure suddenly dropped, and he had to hold onto the headboard to steady himself while it balanced out. As it was passing he noticed light creeping underneath the door that led to the hallway, and when his head cleared he walked over and opened it.

From somewhere around the corner that led into the kitchen, an indistinct mumbling reached his ears—someone was talking to themself. He couldn't understand what they were saying, but he definitely recognized the voice. It was the only person insane enough to still be up at this hour.

Shielding his eyes from the harsh lights, Reese shuffled down the hallway and peered around the corner. Sure enough, Malcolm sat at the kitchen table. His back was to him, but from what Reese could see he had open books strewn across the table's surface. Every once in a while he would reach out and grab a random book from the edge of the pile, flip furiously through it, and then toss it aside, all the while mumbling to himself.

"Square the hypotenuse of..." he would say, and then go on to, "A squared plus B squared equals... Cumulonimbus clouds... Stratosphere... If train A leaves the station at... but train B leaves the station at... Einstein... relativity... The square root of a watermelon..."

Even Reese's grog-laden mind knew there was something off about that last one—and it wasn't just because he thought the roots of a watermelon were rectangular, either—so he shuffled into the kitchen and sat at a chair across from Malcolm. Malcolm, though, didn't even seem to notice him. He simply babbled on to himself, flipping through book after book, and then tossing them aside.

Reese sat and watched him for a moment, half his mind wondering what the hell Malcolm was doing while the other half slept; although the speed at which the books were being shuffled across the table was beginning to make him dizzy. He was on the verge of waking the more rested half of his mind up when his hand acted of its own volition and grabbed a book from Malcolm's grasp right as he was about to open it. He held it for only a split second before swiftly bringing his arm backwards and tossing the book into the living room, where it landed—safely—on the couch.

For a few seconds Malcolm continued to act as if the book was still in his possession, his hands moving as if to open it. Then it seemed to register in his mind that it was missing, and he looked up—right at Reese. For only a moment he seemed to acknowledge Reese's presence—frowning and and narrowing his eyes—before continuing to babble to himself and reach for another book.

The part of Reese that was still awake let out an audible groan, one that said he was definitely not happy, and perhaps thought this was more trouble than it was worth. Then he stood up, grabbed the end of the table, lifted, and dumped every single book onto the floor. (Had he been better rested he might have actually flipped the entire table over.)

As the books fell and made loud THUMP THUMP THUMP noises, Malcolm stayed in his seat, quiet now, and stared forward. As Reese sat the table back on its legs he slowly looked in his direction. Reese stared back, intent on getting his point across.

Then Malcolm seemed to come out of his daze, if not his craze.

"Reese!" he hissed suddenly. He stood up just as suddenly, and then bent over to retrieve the books from the floor. "I have to study! The SAT's are in a week!"

Reese continued to stare at him, either not comprehending, or not caring. He shifted his weight to one leg and crossed his arms over his chest.

Malcolm shook his head.

"Don't look at me like that! This is important!"

Reese rolled his eyes, and Malcolm's eyes narrowed again.

"It is, too, important!"

Reese's eyebrows rose, if only a fraction of an inch.

"It could determine what college I get into!"

Reese shifted his weight to his other leg.

"I don't care what time it is! This is more important than sleep!"

Reese uncrossed his arms, leaned down low on the table, and glowered in Malcom's direction. Malcolm glared back for barely a second before he dropped his books, stood up, and walked to Reese's side.

"Okay, maybe you're right," he said. "I'll probably be able to study better after I sleep anyway."

Reese just smiled and nodded, as if he actually cared about Malcolm's studying. Then he took firm hold of both of Malcolm's shoulders and steered him in the direction of their bedroom, flipping off the kitchen lights as they passed the switch. The books were left in a heap on the floor.

In the bedroom Malcolm stared down at his side of the bed. Perhaps he was still unwilling to lie down, or maybe he was just going out of his mind, but no matter how much Reese pushed him, Malcolm would not get in. It took Reese all of thirty seconds to give that up before he physically picked Malcolm up and dropped him onto the bed. He landed with an audible 'OOF!' and looked around himself as if he had no idea what had just happened.

His mission complete, Reese crawled over Malcolm's sprawled form to his own side of the bed. There he yawned, stretched a bit, and turned to curl himself around his brother—one arm snaking its way across Malcolm's chest and one leg completely latching itself around Malcolm's lower half. Then he pulled his pillow across the sheets with his other hand, fluffed it a bit, and laid his head down to get comfortable resting half-way on Malcolm's shoulder, content.

The second half of his brain was just about ready to doze off when the sound of the "genius'" incessant mumblings once again reached his ear.

"Y equals MX plus B... Characteristics of the Class Polychaeta include... Insects have six legs, two to four wings, two antennae... are further divided into three sections... —oles are formed when massive... reach the end of their... explode... E equals MC—OOF!"

Without any hesitation, Reese brought up the arm draped across Malcolm's chest and brought it back down into Malcolm's gut. If not for the lock in which Reese held him, Malcolm would have immediately sat up and clutched at his stomach—and he tried, too—but instead coughed, grimaced, and nodded his compliance.

"Alright," he croaked. "I can take a hint..."

Reese grinned into Malcolm's shoulder and snuggled closer. Malcolm groaned and closed his eyes, useless information continuing to run past them across the backside of his eyelids.

The clock read 1:36 AM, and everything was as it should be.

* * *

**A/N**: Something I've noticed about my writing is that a lot of my settings take place at night, and either involve sleep-deprivation or cuddling in bed. I get the feeling this stems from my having trouble sleeping... and an affinity for cuddling. XD But Malcolm and Reese do it SO WELL, don't they?

I would like to take this opportunity to thank all of my reviewers. You all know that you have no obligation to review, but quite a few of you do it anyway. You are all awesome, seriously. I would hug you all if I could. And to those of you that don't review-you're awesome as well. I'm happy just knowing that y'all like this silly collection. Thank you all! :D

As stated previously, reviewing is not necessary. All I ask is that you read and enjoy. Also, kudos to anyone that knows where Malcolm got his 'craze' from. x3


End file.
